


what died didn't stay dead

by zenithaurora



Series: Aang Week [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aang Week 2021, Air Nomads (Avatar), Canon Relationships, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Light Angst, Minor Aang/Katara, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29633940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenithaurora/pseuds/zenithaurora
Summary: Aang visits the Southern Air Temple to say goodbye to an old friend.
Relationships: Aang & Gyatso (Avatar)
Series: Aang Week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174718
Kudos: 15





	what died didn't stay dead

The air was different at the temples. It was probably due to the high altitude, Aang had determined years ago, when he had spent months away from his old home. Even after the end of the war, he did not spend much time in the temples. He had only returned for two reasons: one, to bury the fallen (he dismissed that voice in his head that reminded him that he did not have the possibility to give them a proper Air Nomad funeral), and to supervise the restoration of the temples.

After getting out of the iceberg, he spent the most part of his teenage years as a nomad. The peace was relatively new, with new conflicts that demanded his attention rising every day. Even after Bumi was born, he and Katara kept mostly a nomadic lifestyle, taking temporary residence in the homes offered by their family and friends. Their jobs required their presence all around the world, and neither of them wanted to remain away from their son for extended periods of time. It was not after they were expecting their second child that they decided to move to a permanent settlement, somewhere where their family could fit in, and thus, they created their home in Air Temple Island off the shore of Republic City.

The air is nippy, biting the exposed parts of his skin, soaring high in the overcast sky, although the coldness brought comfort to him— a remainder of his life before the iceberg and a feature he associated with the life he formed after he woke up. Aang lands with expertise on the stone floor, and closes his glider.

The Southern Air Temple was the first of the four temples to be restored to its old glory at his request. The weeds covering the walls had long been cleared, and the scorched smudges were cleaned. The cracks on the pillars were filled and the foundations were strengthened. It was a work that took years and the financial resources given by the Fire Nation, but by the time his first son was born, his old home resembled the way it used to be when he was a young boy.

He passes by a group of Air Acolytes tending to a small patch of ground and greets them. He does not spend much time talking with them, as he has only one objective in mind. He walks through the long path that twists and leads up to the mountain. He used to walk through those halls as a child still living in the blissful ignorance of a peaceful childhood; now he is a man with the years lived manifesting on his body, littered with scars, and slowed down by weary bones. His steps get heavier and he freezes to the ground; he vacillates, as he ponders whether this was a good idea or not. He takes a deep breath through his nose, squares his shoulders, and blanks his mind. If he does not give it much of a thought, he can keep walking.

At last, he reaches to the entrance of the temple, and stops before the statue of Monk Gyatso.

“Hello, Gyatso,” he bows to his old master. His first master.

He had thought many times on what he would say to the man if he ever had the chance. He had reflected on it so many times before, but now that he was there, he does not know where or how to start. It had been years since the last time he had stood there in front of him. Deep down he knows that statues are only a material thing with no actual spiritual eaning, but standing in front of him, staring at the carving of his uneven beard and the wrinkles that had marked his face for as long as he knew him, his heart skips a beat as everything feels more real.

“I’m sorry for not coming sooner” he lowers his head in shame, “or more often” he adds.

He does not know where to start, but an apology it is the bare minimum he deserves. He could give a plethora of excuses in the line of how busy he has been, but nothing could justify not coming here in the past years. A humorless chuckle comes out of his mouth; Gyatso would never blame him for it. He would never hold anything against him, even the things he deserves to be condemned for.

“I’m doing fine, if that’s what concerns you”, he says and rubs the nape of his neck.

He is not lying.

The circumstances surrounding the end of the war are still fuzzy for him, to the point that if someone were to ask him to retell the events in a detailed-manner, he would not be able to do so. He had defeated the Fire Lord by taking away his bending. Words sprung fast around him; the Fire Princess had been imprisoned, the airship fleet was stopped before it could reach the Earth Kingdom, Ba Sing Se had been liberated. 

He remembers taking in these news and digesting them, as a far away idea that could not exist but somehow it did. Once he understood, once he accepted that the war was officially over, exhaustion crept over his bones and forced him to close his eyes. It took him several nights of sleep to feel like a functional human being again. Whatever happened between the end of the war and Zuko’s coronation it is an empty space in his memory.

However, there was one detail that always stuck with him, a fact that soured the victory they had fought for. He remembers standing next to Zuko as he was crowned and looking at the crowd of blues, greens, and reds, knowing that there was one color missing among them.

Then, another realization struck him, setting on fire his skin: where would he go? Zuko had a new job ruling the Fire Nation, Suki was probably going back to Kyoshi Island, Katara and Sokka were going back to their home, and Toph… she was going to do whatever she wanted somewhere in the Earth Kingdom. All his friends had some place where they were needed and missed— all except for him. So, where would he go? Where did he belong now?

He spent days distressing over this, avoiding his friends, fearing that the next words he would hear coming out of them would be a farewell. Fortunately, things went the opposite direction.

Sokka approached him one of those days. His body tensed, bracing himself for that being the last time he would ever see him. Instead, he invited him to go to the South Pole with him and Katara. After blinking away his confusion, he accepted the offer with a smile.

Ever since that day, the Southern Water Tribe had become his second home. Life at the Poles was a remarkable contrast from the way he grew up in the temple. Living conditions were harsh, with rough, gelid winters and at all around cold climate during the entirety of the year. The Water Tribe subsisted on hunting for many purposes, such as food and clothing. There was also the fact that he somehow belonged to Katara’s and Sokka’s family, and not to the whole community like they accustomed to do in the temples.

He did not know how to face a way of living that was so foreign for him, but with the passing of the weeks, he adapted, even rejoiced in the differences. Although he was probably never going to stop squirming at the sight of a dead animal being skinned, he understood that the characteristics of the environment made it difficult to grow food. Besides, he appreciated how the Water Tribes respected the animals in their own way, by thanking them for allowing them to use their meat and skin to survive. The idea of a community that was so focused on blood relationships was strange to him, but whenever Gran Gran offered him a second serving of soup, or Hakoda would coax him into taking a break, or Bato would tell another story of his youth, he could not stop the smile from showing on his face.

He was always going to be an Air Nomad at heart, but the Southern Water Tribe was his family now.

“It’s so different from growing in the temples, but,” he shrugs, “they took me in. They didn’t have an obligation towards me and they accepted me in their home, anyway”. He was always going to be grateful for it.

He looks at the statue, wondering if a part deep down in his self was waiting for an answer, a comment, a sign that he was talking to a person and not a sculpted rock. A thunder rumbles within the stone walls and the crevices between the mountains, indicating him that he did not have much time until he had to leave.

“I have my own family now,” he says. Another thunder breaks in the sky. “A wife and three children to be more specific” he adds.

The Air Nomads’ concept of marriage was a lot more different than the concept that the Water Tribes had of marriage, he learned early on his wedding preparations. For starters, his people did not call it marriage, but rather “spiritual union”, and it could be formed by anyone regardless of their gender or the number of individuals. The one time his people would use the word ‘marriage’ they would refer to how the monks who formed the Council of Five would marry their temple and dedicated their lives to it.

The concept of raising your own children with one partner was foreign to him too. Following Air Nomad tradition, from the moment a baby took their first breath, they belonged to the community. All the elders were your caretakers, and all the monks (or nuns) in your temple were your family, irrespective of what label you wanted to impose on them. His family ended up being an almost complete opposite of what he grew up with, but he did not have any complain.

"My oldest son, Bumi, he is…” he stops, trying to come up with the right word to describe him, “chaotic. He loves throwing fruit pies at people, and he even has his own mini catapult to do it” his memory takes him back to the times when he would share that same experience with his mentor and a smile graces his features, deeming that Gyatso would have loved to throw fruit pies with Bumi.

“I also have a daughter, Kya”, he continues, “she loves animals and travelling. She’s obsessed with otter-penguins and sky bison and I just know that one day she’s going to leave to explore the world” he chuckles. It is ironic, how she is a waterbender and her appearance resembles someone from the Water Tribes, but behaves like an Air Nomad the most out of his three children.

“Tenzin it’s my youngest. He is always so eager to learn more about airbending and our culture,” his smile fades in a slight frown, “he is a bit too serious for his age. I mean, I don’t remember anyone his age actually enjoy meditation but he seems to do so,” he sighs and chuckles, “we’re trying to get him to slow down”.

The first raindrops dampen his cape, and two of them land on his scalp, skidding their way down the slope of his cheeks and falling to the ground from his chin. He looks up, noticing that a rainstorm will hit the temple soon. He needs to hurry.

“And Katara,” he begins tentatively, not knowing where to start. There are so many words that flashes through his mind, but none could make her justice. “She’s my best friend” he finally settles with those words, “she is amazing in any way you could imagine and I can’t imagine a life without her. When I came here the first time, I didn’t know what to do, but she was there”.

He remembers that moment in vivid detail, even though he wishes he did not: the trembling of his hands, the blurriness of his eyes, the shortness of breath, the fury threatening to burst. He began floating in a whirlwind, not taking in consideration the damage he could be causing. The roof exploded with the force of the wind, hurtling debris high into the sky and down the slopes of the cliffs. He was in the center of the tornado. He could not focus on anything but one shouting, incessant thought: _you are alone_.

Then, a calm yell broke through his brain. A promise, comforting words that reassured him and quelled the grief that had taken over his body. The wind around him dissipated and the air became still as a gentle pressure settled on his hand. _You are not alone._

He was always going to be thankful for them.

The soft drizzling begins turning into a downpour and his cape it is starting to soak. The thunders are roaring through his eardrums now, and he can feel in the ache of his chest that it is time to go. Ignoring the water that slithers its way down his back, he stands straight and looks directly into his stone-carved eyes. His resolution dwindles; soft eyes that used to brim with kindness are now vacant and cold.

“I’m sorry for leaving without saying goodbye”, he lets out a choked sound.

Among all the mistakes from his past, that one still stands out as one of his deepest regrets. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat before continuing.

“I don’t think I’ll ever come back here again,” he confesses, “I just wanted to tell I’m okay first. That I’ll be okay”.

He thinks of the way the hair on the nape of his neck stands up whenever he sets foot in the temple. How, whenever he sees new people living in his old home, his mind falls back on the memory of the people that should be there instead. Ghosts haunt the halls, some with solemn faces characteristic of the elders, some faces filled with the joy and innocence of a life before the comet— some pained with the curse of a peaceless eternity. He cannot stand it.

Sometimes he wonders what would it be like if Gyatso was still around. Maybe, if he had waited until morning, he would have come with him and they would have been frozen together, or he would have been convinced to stay at the temple and protect his people. He tries to picture a life with Gyatso in it. He muses what he would say about him if he still had voice— would he be proud of him? Of the family he formed? Of the Avatar he had become?

Aang shakes his head, willing himself not to ponder on questions without answers. Tears wells up in his eyes, but he can still discern the shape of his old friend.

“Goodbye, Gyatso” he bows and he offers him a smile that does not meet the eyes.

The rainstorm intensifies and his clothes are drenched now as he walks the patch back to the stables, darkening the red of his cape. A lightening break through the dark grey sky and the world rages; another quick reminder that it is time to go.

He does not turn back.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic really didn't want to write itself.
> 
> Title based on 'marjorie' by Taylor Swift.


End file.
